


The Road Goes Ever On And On

by mainecoon76



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: AU, Gen, M/M, about fanfic, also RPF, meta perspective, or rather several AUs, prompt: the road, though probably not the persons you're thinking of, written for dworin week 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:25:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4247538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many different roads, and sometimes there is no telling which is the right one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Goes Ever On And On

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The passages in italics are a direct quote from The Hobbit (with the obvious exceptions), and do not belong to me. Also, I hope the real persons mentioned in this fic are not turning in their graves. I just let them talk a bit.

When Bilbo would look back on his adventure many years later, he would find that he rejoiced in the memories and, all things considered, the good far outweighed the bad. Yet there were things that made his heart sore when he thought about them too closely, and so he sealed them deep in his chest and never spoke of them. He preferred to remember his friends bright and living. So he would think of Thorin sitting by the fire and smoking his pipe, as he had done so many times during their long journey, and he had told them stories of heroes and dragons, of a mountain full of craftsmanship and beauty and a treasure beyond comprehension. Bilbo liked to remember his voice, for it was deep and lively. He tried not to think too much about the last words it ever spoke, even if those words had been full of wisdom and kindness.

Other times he would think of Dwalin and his fiddle, and how many a night on the road was brightened by merry songs and raucous laughter. Fondly he remembered the brave fellow who would protect his friends at any cost, and he would think about him often, except for the last time he ever saw him, a pale and broken body found lifeless on the battlefield. Dwalin had fallen in defense of his king and dearest friend, and his deed had saved the lives of Thorin’s sister-sons. Bilbo very much liked to think of them, too, even if it was still strange for him to imagine one of those merry young lads on the throne of Erebor and the other his closest advisor. But many years had passed since those days, and King Fíli’s reign was widely known to be wise and just.

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Whenever Bilbo looked back on his adventure many a year later, he would think fondly of it and with not a little amount of pride. Never for a moment did he regret the fit of un-hobbitish longing that had urged him to leave behind the comfort of his home and his garden to chase after a bunch of ill-tempered dwarves and one presumptuous wizard. He liked to recall the good things that had happened on their journey, and, to be perfectly honest, it is possible that he forgot how much the discomforts of sparse food and the lack of a proper bed and the constant danger of being attacked had bothered him when they were on the road.

He only wished that the outcome had been a happier one. Occasionally he still received letters from the Mountain, missives that told him of a thriving dwarven kingdom and a wealthy town of men rebuilt near its gates. But the king, they said, was never merry. Thorin himself would not complain. His letters were long-winded and formal like his speeches, and never showed any joy or sorrow. But Balin would worry, and in his own grief over the loss of his brother and both young princes would even talk of leaving the kingdom altogether, even though Bilbo did not think he ever would do such a thing while Thorin still needed him. 

Curse the stubbornness of dwarves, Bilbo thought, and the sheer tenacity with which they held onto past ill and sorrow, ever refusing to move on. It was many years now since he had seen the dwarf king grieve over the bodies of his nephews and his closest friend. “Now we have taken back the Mountain,” Thorin had cried, “but no treasure in the world can give me back what I lost, and would that I had gone with them to leave the burden of the crown to another.” He had taken Dwalin’s cold hand and kissed it, and Bilbo had slipped away quietly. He had seen how deep was the love between the king and his warrior, and he had no right to witness Thorin’s pain.

Now so much time had passed and the dead had passed into legend, but the King Under The Mountain would ever hold onto his grief.

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“You must tell me,” Bilbo said when all three of them had settled at the table and were enjoying blueberry cakes (which Bilbo had made for himself, strictly speaking, but ever since his home had been invaded by a party of dwarves many years ago he made sure that supplies were never lacking) – “You must tell me how things are going in Erebor.”

“They are going well.” Balin exchanged a fond smile with Gandalf. “So well that I even thought it possible to accompany our dear friend the wizard when he suggested visiting the Shire. The others are not expendable at the moment, but they send their warmest regards, along with some gifts I will give you as soon as I am finished with this excellent food.”

Gandalf leant back in his chair and lit his pipe. 

“Thorin is a good king,” he said thoughtfully. “He fulfilled all the hopes I set in him, and he will never again fall prey to the gold lust that nearly soured our triumph over the dragon. With him ruling in Erebor and Dáin in the Iron Hills, the orcs will have trouble to gain influence in the North.”

“Always looking at the bigger picture,” said Balin with a twinkle. “I, for one, am happy to see Erebor restored and thriving.”

“And Dwalin?” asked Bilbo, looking for a way to delicately phrase the question that had been teasing him from the first time he had seen the king and his best friend together, though propriety had always kept him from asking.

“Dwalin is thriving too,” Balin answered with a chuckle, but he would say no more about it.

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_Then Bilbo turned away, and he went by himself, and sat alone wrapped in a blanket, and, whether you believe it or not, he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse. He was a kindly little soul. Indeed it was long before he had the heart to make a joke again._

_~~“Farewell, Thorin,” he said~~_  
_~~Fíli and Kíli had fallen~~_

_(….)_

_And turning towards the Mountain he added: “Farewell Thorin Oakenshield! And Fíli and Kíli! May your memory never fade!”_

 

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The soft light of spring made the leaves of the jasmine bushes outside cast dancing shadows against the study walls. Her husband was leaning on his desk as she walked in, surrounded by stacks of handwritten pages and studying the movement on the tapestry in deep concentration. She wondered idly if to him those shades evoked the movement of nimble forest folk, or strange curved letters in a tongue that sounded ancient and yet was born entirely from his own mind.

She leant down to kiss his cheek before she picked up one of the papers, careful to avoid the wet ink.

"Have you already decided?"

"Decided on what, my love?" 

He met her eye with a smile that never failed to charm her and occasionally made her forget that she had actually come to fetch him for tea. Instead she would let herself be abducted into his own beautiful world once again, and really there was no other place she would rather be.

"Which of those is what really happened," she replied, indicating the notes in her hand.

"Ah, well." His eyes assumed a distant expression. "I am not sure. What do you think? Dwalin is your creation, and that means you have a say in it."

"You hardly mentioned him so far. But perhaps it is better if you let him be." She winced as she skimmed over the pages, but then she leant against the desk and looked at her husband thoughtfully. "All of them, I think."

"Beg your pardon?"

"It is a story, John. Who can say how it ends? You may decide upon one ending, but if your readers love your tale, they will make dozens of endings. Hundreds, maybe. Can you tell which is the right one?"

"You speak as if the story exists outside of my mind."

"Does it not?" She smiled at him. "Did you not call these people to life and gave them a world to walk inside? Do you really believe you see every mischief they work behind your back?"

"You, my Luthien, are the wisest creature to walk upon this earth." He put his pen aside and caught her hand, and the look that passed between them spoke of years of intimacy. "But I can still guide them. Challenge them. Spite them, even."

"Give Dwalin a blue beard and make Thorin hold boring speeches, if you have to. Your readers will love them nevertheless."

He leant back in his seat, and his eyes held the same merry twinkle that had captured her heart on the day they met.

"You know, my love," he returned brightly, "I believe that I will."


End file.
